Small Bird From Tree to Die

With no flap in his watery feathers he fell they folded
And the wind broke his umbrella back;
Bang became strain
And belly-full became concrete pain
With a triangle in the upstairs window
One sought to disquaver the swoon, the wobble, the waver.
Stanley rose to triangles,
Until whistle-wheezes were unables.
They like the triangle song true 
Flew the half-open window through.

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